


At the Beginning Again

by Cubicquart



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Claude-centric, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, Friendship, Gen, Not Beta Read, Post-Ending, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 13:02:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20507444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cubicquart/pseuds/Cubicquart
Summary: His last days in Fódlan danced across his vision, a private moment of weakness he welcomed.





	At the Beginning Again

Altanir was alive with the thrum of wyvern-skin drums. Rhythms steady and frantic alike melded into a melodic cacophony of sound. Claude was taken in by the heady scent of mead and incense and spices and pine. His eyes wandered over a city bathed in flame, pinpricks of light that could be easily extinguished with a drop of rain, or a flap of Yera’s wings. But not in that moment. The sky was as dark as it was clear, and he was loath to dampen the festivities for the raucous townsfolk below.

They found their perch atop a robust sandstone spire, overlooking the city and the landscape beyond. To the east, plains as far as the eye could see and beyond that, a wild forest that spans the eastern plateau. To the west, the last seven years of his life. Beyond the mountains lie a newborn Fódlan, still nursing its wounds. Claude turns his head into Yera’s side, allows himself to sigh as his chest tightens. He strokes her head, notices the soft click of her ice white scales. Altanir’s stubborn thrum of revelry was distant up there.

His last days in Fódlan danced across his vision, a private moment of weakness he welcomed. 

.

Ignatz had sketched the moments after the battle, capturing the sudden calm that washed over an exhausted landscape, despite the fact that his right lens was cracked down the middle. He kept the parchment close to his chest, yet to read the letter that accompanied it, unsure of what he would need so badly to tell him that it could not be formed in words.

Lorenz had been the one to break the silence, naturally. It was something small a murmur of disbelief and Claude had to suppress his urge to tease him across the field.

“At my command, we celebrate.”

The career nobleman’s eloquent restraint was shattered by his battalion, who raised their voices to a sharp roar that rippled across the land, common and noble folk alike. The spell was broken, but Byleth’s hand remained in his as she raised her other fist to the sky, the Sword of the Creator forgotten on the ground. 

Leonie personally took their wounded to their scattered medic camps on horseback, but she spared the time to organize the return march with him. She marked the map with a phrase he recognized in the far reaches of his memory, a seminar from six years prior.

“To the next one? Makes you sound like a real mercenary.” Claude said, and Leonie smiled wryly. He laughed.

“Glad to hear it.”

Marianne took his arm sometime in the hours after they began their march back to Derdriu, and in a moment of silent respite she prayed for him with the same breath she used to honor the fallen. It was more faith than perhaps he deserved, but her confident voice betrayed the relief in her very core, as though the end of their long struggle marked the riddance of a great burden. On that much, they could agree. 

Raphael had dragged him by the arm and his sister had dragged him by the leg, completely willing, to take the head of the table the night of the feast. No sleep would be had until all were hearty and full, faces red from laughter. With some pride, he attributes the last to his toast.

“To the future of Fódlan, the lands beyond, and to all the time our beloved Teach now has to go fishing.” Byleth saluted him with a finely skewered morsel of pike with a serene smile. He winked and raised his glass, blood rushing to his ears when she brought her own goblet to her lips in response.

Lysithea led a chorus, a traditional Alliance ballad about their foundation, and Claude thinks it ought to have a new verse added. Hundreds of voices joined, coloring the sound that rose to the ceilings of the golden hall with warmth and a renewed vigor. Well, he wasn’t singing, he was watching the others’ faces, satisfied. Lysithea’s eyes met his, and the telltale tingle of thunder magic settled into his spine. It took little convincing for him to join in the festivities, although he knew in his heart that they would be short lived for him.

Hilda had swept him off his feet to hoist him onto her shoulders. Holst’s protests landed on deaf, finely adorned ears as she joked about passing Claude off to the others. She was also the last to toast with him when he was set down and the musicians began to play proper, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially.

“You should smile more around the rest of us.”

“And you’ve got to relax, Hilda.” he shot back easily. Any sense of solemnity was shattered by the shared grin that split across both of their faces. He took her hand and they joined the round dance to her brother’s misplaced dismay.

Byleth is the last face he sees at Fódlan’s Locket. She draped her cloak over Yera’s saddle. For the first time, he noticed the golden bracelet that hung from her wrist, a charm set with emeralds to look like a buck’s eyes glinted in the first light of morning. One of his antlers was broken. She caught him staring, snapped her fingers playfully.

“_Claude._”

“Yeah, Byleth.” her name rolled easily off his tongue. He looked to the east, where Altanir’s spires loomed large on the horizon. “I know.”

“Well, go on then.” she said, in no uncertain tone. “I’ll see you later.”

“Until then, my dearest friend.” It was a promise.

.

He stands before the people of Altanir at the beginning again, clinging to a pipe dream of an ambition he thinks he can fulfill. He nocks an arrow, sets it alight. He draws, releases, and it traces a fiery arc in the sky. The drumming stops and voices crescendo into a ground shaking roar as the first torch was set aflame for his return. A burgeoning smile broke his lips, uncertain, foolish, and utterly hopeful.

The sun dipped below Fódlan's throat, leaving him at the mercy of an Almyran night.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this, I'm trying my hand at fic and thinking about Claude's first moments back in Almyra got me writing for once.


End file.
